Comic Relief
by 1uvakindmom
Summary: Michelangelo finds himself with more than he bargained for when he sneaks out of the lair to attend a comic book convention. Set in the 1987 show.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: TMNT don't belong to me...they belong to Nick.**

**A/N: This story takes place during season 7 of the OT show, so the Technodrome is stuck in the ocean in the Artic. I am attempting to make this a little more light-hearted than the other TMNT story I am currently working on "The Lesser of Two Evils." I am also having this star everyone's favorite pizza muncher, Mikey! I am not used to writing him, so hopefully I do him justice! Thanks for reading! And I do know that they don't use the nicknames in the OT, but in my head cannon they do :P.**

Michelangelo had never been much of a planner. He tended to be a laid back, go with the flow type of guy. But there were always extenuating circumstances, moments which caused one to act contrary to their nature. And for this, he was _well_ prepared. He had been planning for weeks for this day and he was confident it would go without a hitch.

He watched the kitchen clock with eager eyes as the second hand ticked its way around, marking the last few seconds until it was go time. He double checked the surroundings, a wide, satisfied grin gracing his features when he took in the perfection of his set up. His right leg bounced nervously in anticipation as his fingers drummed on the checkered table top in subconscious time to the clock.

He faintly heard the alarm emanating from Leonardo's room followed by vocal protests from his other two brothers at being woken up. A chorus of irritated "five more minutes, Fearless" and "you just interrupted a dream of me winning the Nobel Prize" then melted into confused wonderings as to why Michelangelo's bed was empty. And right on cue, his three brothers entered the kitchen in various states of awake. Michelangelo jumped to his feet and graciously pulled out three chairs.

"Good morning, dudes!" his grin widened, threatening to break his face in two. "How are my three favorite bros doing this morning?" He motioned to the table which was covered in breakfast pizzas, juice, tea and freshly brewed coffee. "Look! I even made a fantabuloso breakfast!"

Three sets of eyes shot up at him in confusion as they took in the feast on the table. Leonardo crossed his arms in his authoritarian older brother manner that his siblings all equally detested.

His voice was drenched in suspicion as he asked, "Alright, Mike, what's all this for? What did you do this time? Did you de-alphabetize by books again?"

"Did you break one of my inventions again?" Donatello chimed in, his voice accusing.

"Did one of your crazy pets decide to turn my belongings into an all you can eat buffet again?" Raphael inquired darkly.

Mike held up his hands in surrender, his eyes as wide and innocent as a puppy's.

"No way, dudes! Does a Turtle need an excuse to let his older bros know how totally tubular they are?"

"Hmm..." Raphael rubbed his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Coming from you..."

"YES!" the three oldest Turtles shouted in unison.

Mike slumped into a chair and deflated. This was definitely _not_ going how he had pictured it. His brothers were supposed to have taken the bait hook, line, and sinker. They were supposed to have been so thankful for his breakfast offering that he could have gone right into what he wanted… He licked his lips nervously as he racked his brain for something to say.

"Well..." the orange clad turtle began. "There might be a teeeeeny something." He held his forefinger and thumb up a few millimeters apart to indicate "teeny".

"Ok, Michelangelo," Leonardo began, his voice stern, as if admonishing a child. Mike cringed at the sound of his full name. He knew Leo reserved using their full names for times when he meant business. "Out with it..."

Mike steepled his fingers and slowly tapped them together nervously.

"Umm..." Mike fidgeted in his seat, his next words coming out in a jumbled, rushed heap. "Well...there's kind of this totally awesome comic book convention going on today and I want to go cuz a mondo rare autographed comic is gonna be for sale and, dude, I have been saving up for months for it...so anyways...can I skip practice today and go, O Glorious Leaderdude?"

"Oh ho!" Raphael smirked smugly, catching Mike with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. "Now I see what this is all about."

"Mike," Leo chided, "you know how Master Splinter is about missing training, especially for what he deems as frivolous pursuits. While he doesn't mind you reading comics _in your down time_, I know he would not approve of you spending a lot of money on a single comic. It's impractical to say the least..."

"But...but..." Mike sputtered. "DUDE! It's 'The Pulverizer' issue 1, signed by the writer, Timothy Mutagen, himself! It's the only one I don't own...the one with his righteous origin story..."

"_Mike,_" Leo spoke his name sternly, shaking his head, indicating that the conversation was over.

Mike hung his head as he stood and moped out of the kitchen.

"Way to dash a dude's hopes and dreams, bro," he said glumly as he headed out to his room.

Donatello rolled his eyes at Mike's dramatic exit. "If those are his hopes and dreams, I think I've heard enough!"

Raphael chuckled in amusement and turned his attention to the table, his stomach growling a little too noticeably.

"Well, guys," Raph said, rubbing his hands together with relish, "even though it has been clearly established that we are not the 'most tubular bros ever'" - he spoke in a perfect approximation of Mike's voice and motioning with his fingers in air quotes - "we cannot let such foods go to waste!"

"Agreed!" Donatello nodded as he picked up a slice of oatmeal and blueberries pizza and took a bite.

Leonardo sighed in resignation as he took a thoughtful sip of his tea, and glanced over in the direction of the exit to the kitchen. He hated saying no to Mike, but it just wasn't in anyone's best interest to allow him to go…especially amongst a large group of humans. He just hoped Mike understood his logic and wouldn't take it too personally.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The only Ninja Turtles I own are my shirts…and action figures…and cups...and bowls…I think you get the picture. Not mine.**

**A/N: I know that Mike didn't use his chucks anymore in season 7…but I never liked the grappling hook thing. So…he's still using his chucks XD**

Michelangelo could hear the muffled sounds of his brother's talking in the kitchen carrying over to his room. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he was fairly certain that he was the topic of conversation.

He was lying on his bed, fingers interlaced behind his head, staring at the ceiling pensively. He had crossed his legs, the right one on top bouncing restlessly.

"I just don't see what the big deal is," he frowned, his leg picking up momentum in his irritation, "I mean, it's not like I'd become a bogus ninja or something if I miss only one measly practice."

Mike reached down to the floor on the side of the bed and grabbed one of his chucks, the familiar weight in his hands a slight comfort. He began twirling it idly in large, lazy loops, chewing his lower lip in thought. The leash Leonardo was keeping him on was getting old fast. Shredder had been lying low lately, and even the city itself had been quiet. April had been constantly complaining about the lack of worthwhile stories. So why was Leo being such a hard case?

His gaze shifted to his bookshelf which proudly housed his comic book collection. "The Pulverizer" number two seemed to be glaring accusingly at him, as if chiding him for owning an incomplete set.

"Seriously, dude," Mike said to no one in particular, "what's the _worst_ that could happen if I go? It's _my_ money, and I should be able to spend it however I want."

He sat up, dangling his legs over the side of the bed and swinging them.

"My bros just don't understand a dude and his comics," Mike sighed. "I already bought my ticket for the convention, too."

His eyes widened at his last statement.

"_I already bought my ticket_," he echoed, "and Leo told me I shouldn't be wasting money…and if I don't go…that would be a total waste-ola of my deniro. Cannot have that, now can we?" He grinned impishly at his revelation.

He slipped off his bed like smooth silk and stealthily peered around the corner of his room entrance into the common area. The floor was covered in books, pillows, weapons, and other various oddities his brothers and himself had left strewn about. The busy New York traffic echoed faintly overhead, sounds which were so ingrained in him that he never paid them much notice. But now, his senses were on full-alert and everything was privy to his scrutiny. Satisfied that no one was around, he emptied out his piggy bank and stuffed its contents into his wallet which he then slipped into his belt. He grabbed his nunchucks as well and cautiously tip-toed out of his room and down the stairs leading to the floor.

His movements were exaggerated and careful at first, but the further he got, his confidence grew and his steps hastened. When he reached the garage he felt a pang of guilt, and hesitated before he opened to door. He glanced back over his shoulder, his hand hovering above the handle indecisively. His fingers twitched as his mind warred with itself. He didn't like disobeying Leonardo, and knew they would probably be worried about him when they noticed he was gone…but he _needed_ this comic…like Don needed inventions, or Raph needed sarcasm, or Leo needed order…right? His hand snatched the handle and he flung the door open with jerky speed, hopped in the van, and took off before he could convince himself otherwise.  
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

April O'Neil sat at her desk in her office, her fingers dancing across her keyboard as she typed up a report. She detested days like this. If the day could have been any slower, it would have been dripping molasses. The news was dry and her boredom was higher than the ratings for Vernon's talk show. She knew Burne had given her these reports to finish for him as busy work. She let out an annoyed huff of air, blowing a piece of hair out of her line of vision. She sat back in her chair to read over her work, having to go over each paragraph multiple times when she found she was merely skimming them in her distraction.

"APRIL! GET IN HERE!" came the booming voice of Mr. Thompson from his adjacent office.

April started and snapped to her feet like a taut rubber band, the back of her legs hitting her chair and making it roll into the wall with a light thud. It bounced back a few inches and spun once feebly. Not missing a beat, she rushed to her boss' office, the shock having worn off quickly from years of responding to the overbearing man.

"What's up, Chief?" she asked her portly employer who was sitting stiffly behind his desk, surrounded by stacks of papers and mismatched files.

"No news is _not_ good news, April," he frowned, his bushy blonde eyebrows forming a tight "v" of displeasure. "So it's time to get creative."

April attempted to remain impassive, but she could not help the momentary irritated wrinkling of her nose. Nothing good ever came when Burne got into these desperate modes for a story. _Please not a fashion show…_she pleaded silently to every deity that came to mind.

Burne reached under his desk and pulled out a garment bag. He tossed it to the reporter who in turn caught it, eyeing it skeptically.

"What's…this…?" she asked suspiciously, holding it gingerly as if she expected it to explode.

"Your costume, of course," Burne stated as it if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "you're going to cover the comic convention that's in town!"

April's face fell and her expression grew incredulous. "You can't be serious, Mr. Thompson!" she protested.

"I'm always serious, O'Neil," the news executive responded, his voice rising to a menacing level with his next words, "and if you're serious about _your paycheck_ you'll get going now!"

April needed no further persuasion. "Right away, Chief!"

She turned around stiffly and headed from Mr. Thompson's office.

"And take Vernon with you to be your cameraman," he called out after her retreating form, "maybe he'll bring us back some extra ratings boosts in his swag bag."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The Green Machines are not mine, they keep running away to Vinnie's pizza defiantly, the rebels that they are ;).**

There was much to be said about living a few thousand feet under the frigid Arctic Ocean, but at the moment, nothing on the topic came to Bebop's mind. There was also a lot to be said about cleaning the endless expanse of the Technodrome, and there were _many_ choice words that came to the warthog mutant's mind on _that_ subject; words what probably would have curdled milk and made his poor grandma (rest her soul) roll in her grave.

He was in the main control room of the Technodrome, half-heartedly batting around a duster at the copious layers of dust and grime caked into the corners. He would have given his left tusk for a sledgehammer to break through the years' worth of unidentifiable debris coating the edges of the room. The dust rose into the air in a frantic, uncoordinated flurry like an untamed blizzard in the height of a brutal winter. It invaded his sensitive snout, causing him to emit a rather undignified snort-sneeze, the force of which knocked him off his feet and tumbled him to the floor with a resounding thump. The amused hoot coming from next to him did nothing to improve his mood, so he glared at the offender from behind his purple shades.

"Somethin' funny, Rocksteady?" he grunted at his companion.

Rocksteady was pointing a massive grey finger at him, his shoulders heaving in his fit of laughter. He wiped away a tear of mirth and nodded. He attempted to speak, but his chortling had stolen all the air reserves in his lungs.

Bebop sprang rather awkwardly to his feet with all the lack of finesse he was renowned for and balled his hand into a fist. "I'll show you funny, bozo!"

He went to deck Rocksteady on the nose, but he was hastily distracted by the rising tones of an argument coming from behind him. Both mutants turned their attention to the front of the spacious room where the portal screen was located. Shredder and Krang were both engaged in a heated bickering match while regarding the Technodrome's energy gauge. The small television screen was playing on at a soft volume next to them, flashing scenes from the latest John and Marsha.

Shredder stamped his foot on the ground and crossed his arms. "That is the most idiotic plan I have _ever_ heard you come up with, Krang!"

Krang waved a lumpy tentacle at the ninja master. "We need to power up the Technodrome very soon, Shredder. What's so 'idiotic' about siphoning energy from the power plant?"

"Because we've only tried that million times, Krang, and every time we get foiled by those accursed Turtles," Shredder snarled, the word "Turtles" dripping with malice. "Of course that's because they are _your_ plans and not _mine_."

Krang's eyes narrowed into irritated slits. "Have you a better suggestion, Saki? I'm all ears if you do."

"Funny," the human said sarcastically, "you look like atrophied brain sludge to me."

Bebop and Rocksteady found their interest piqued. Cleaning duties forgotten, they made their way over to the evil villains. This was the most entertainment the two of them had had in a while as living in the Technodrome was dreadfully boring at times. Their days as of late had been spent cleaning the Technodrome (while wearing frilly pink aprons none-the-less) and personally running the turbines as make shift living power plants. _Not_ what they had signed up for all those years ago…of course they hadn't originally known _what_ they had signed up for, and both were pretty sure they wouldn't have been able to sign anything anyways, but that was beside the point.

The duo weren't exactly stealthy and Shredder heard their clomping toward him. He turned sharply, his cape whipping to the side at the swift motion.

"You blundering buffoons are supposed to be cleaning!" he berated the mutants. "No breaks! I told you that was the punishment for breaking my favorite vase with my prized katana! How many times have I told you two to stay out of my chambers!? "

"But, Boss…" Bebop began to object, but his words trailed off into a whiney oblivion when a commercial on the television caught his attention. His eyes grew wide in excitement as he pointed to the screen. "Look, Rocksteady! The comic convention is back in the city…I forgot about that. Remember we used to go every year?"

The mutant rhino nodded enthusiastically, his eyes glazed in wistful memory. "Sure do, Bebop, we had lotsa fun at those. Stealin' comics, checkin' out cosplayin' girls, gettin' arrested…good times, good times." Rocksteady turned to Shredder, his eyes turning hopeful. "Can we go, Boss, please, please, can we, can we?"

Shredder's eyes crinkled in disgust. "Absolutely not!"

The ninja master's lackeys dropped to their knees and brought their hands together in a pleading motion.

"Aww c'mon, Boss!" Bebop begged. "We'll serve you forever and ever…"

"_I said _–" Shredder began, but was cut off by Krang.

"Wait, Shredder," the ex-warlord interrupted, his eyes glued to the screen, "turn it up, I want to hear this…"

Shredder huffed in annoyance and raised the volume slightly, shaking his head at the pointlessness of this action and secretly wondering if Krang had lost whatever miniscule sense he had ever possessed.

"—_this convention is sponsored by Rings of Nebulon, the most powerful energy drink this side of the Cortexicon Empire…for those moments when you need to keep your mind strong, or just need an extra slap in the face, grab a can of Rings of Nebulon…the official energy drink of Space Heroes!"_

Krang shut off the television and was silent for several moments before speaking. "That is the plan, Shredder! I got it, and it's _genius_!"

Shredder raised a dubious eyebrow. "What Krang?"

"You will go to the surface and steal those energy drinks! And then, once Bebop and Rocksteady are fed a constant supply of them, they will have more stamina for the turbines to power the Technodrome!"

Shredder blinked slowly a few times trying to process what he just heard, at a complete loss for words. "Alright, Krang, I take it back…_that_ is the most idiotic plan I've ever heard of! Has being stuck down here for so long given you an advanced case of dementia? Should have known with you being a giant brain and all…."

Krang sputtered in offence, but offered no rebuttal. "Just go, Shredder! The convention is in New York City, so the Turtles will come and try to stop you…then you can have your revenge and regain your honor and all that human ninja nonsense."

That was all the prodding Oroku Saki needed. "Of course! Bebop, Rocksteady, let's go!"

He motioned for his mutants to join him and headed for a module go to the city.

"Oh boy, oh boy! Comics and toitle trashin'? I think I just died and went to heaven," Rocksteady commented.

"You ain't makin' it to heaven, stupid!" Bebop retorted.

After they had entered the module and taken off, Krang grinned triumphantly. The alien chuckled softly to himself, "Heh heh heh…gullable fool…"

**A/N: Hmmm…Shredder and his goons are headed to the convention too? This can't be good…and what is Krang up to? Stay tuned! I'd love to hear your opinions…good…bad…? Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: TMNT aren't mine.**

"Ugh!" Raphael grumbled in annoyance, waving a dish rag around. "I don't see why we are stuck washing the dishes! Michelangelo made this mess! I mean _look_ at this kitchen, you'd think we had a battle in here…and _that's _being generous!"

Piles of plates covered the counters, raw eggs and pizza dough clung dreadfully to the floor. Donatello was sure there were a few pieces of broken glass on the floor as well, along with some puddles of milk. Raphael had a point…it did look like maybe the Technodrome had rolled through…but Mike had never been a clean chef. He was a talented one, but not a neat one.

Donatello sighed rather loudly at Raphael's complaining, but didn't take his eyes off the sink full of dishes in front of him. His arms were up to the elbows in sudsy water, attempting to scrub the caked on grime off of the plates without much luck.

"You'd think I would have invented something by now to make this easier…maybe that should be my next task…" Donatello wondered out loud, the distracted gears in his brain beginning to churn as ideas flooded in at the mere mention of inventing something.

"Cheer up guys!" Leonardo said brightly from next to Raphael. "Manual labor is good for the soul. It builds character!"

Raphael grumbled as Donatello handed him another dish to dry, errant suds speckling onto the red clad ninja's face. He scowled and used a wrist band to wipe them off as he moodily grabbed the offered plate from his genius brother and dried it with reluctant, jerky motions.

"I'll admit to being a character…" Raphael snarked, trailing off at the end.

"…but if you have a soul remains to be seen," Donatello finished the thought impishly before Raphael had a chance to.

Raphael snorted his offense and gave the dry plate to Leonardo. The leader took out a katana, carefully balanced the plate on the tip and began to spin it, his expression one of intense concentration as he swayed side to side to keep up the momentum and stability. He then quickly raised his katana and the plate took off, neatly landing on the pile of dried plates on the counter in front of him. He nodded in satisfaction at his work.

"Show off…" Raphael muttered under his breath.

Donatello hummed in agreement as Leonardo shook his head, having heard his younger brother's comment.

"Not in the least," he commented sternly, "I see this as a great time to practice my ninja skills. Balance and concentration are key attributes to continually hone and perfect."

Raphael chuckled dryly. "Looks more like a circus act to me, Leo. Maybe next time we fight Shredder you can distract him with your ever impressive side show while the rest of us watch him die from laughter. Great plan there…"

"Master Splinter always says that a true ninja turns every situation into a learning opportunity, no matter how unlikely," Leonardo crossed his arms, defending himself against Raphael's sarcasm. "Speaking of which, it's time for practice. We can finish this later."

Raphael and Donatello wordlessly nodded and dried off their hands before heading to the dojo. Don replaced his wrist bands as they walked, having removed them in order to wash the dishes. Raphael lagged slightly in the rear, griping to himself in barely audible phrases about "Sensei's pet" and "Mr. Perfect."

Splinter was waiting for them in the dojo, seated on his tatami mat in a meditative lotus position, but his intense eyes were open. His incense stick had dwindled to a stump, but its spicy smell still clung to the air. He nodded slightly in welcome as they kneeled before him in a semi-circle.

"Good morning, my students," the former human spoke as he stood, using his wooden stick for leverage. "Today I am going to teach you a new move, it is called –"

His voice hesitated as his questioning gaze swept across the turtles, stopping at Leonardo and becoming a mix of displeasure and curiosity.

"Where is Michelangelo?" the ninja master's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I do not recall excusing him from practice this morning…"

"He had gone to his room, Master Splinter, he was upset. I will go retrieve him," Leonardo got to his feet, the blood rushing back into his legs.

"Please do," Splinter replied curtly, "I would like to have a word with him about being late for practice. This is not the first time. He is not showing his sensei proper respect."

Leonardo bowed to Splinter before he headed off to Mike's room at a bounding sprint. The last thing he wanted was for his youngest brother to get in trouble, but Mike did have a few things to learn about being responsible, and Splinter could be creative with his punishments. Last time Mike was late was because he had lost track of time playing a video game. Splinter had made him train for an extra hour a day for a week and he also had to eat sushi for the week as well. Splinter remembered that Donatello had once remarked that fish was brain food, and Splinter took video games as "brain-rot", and thus the sensei said Mike needed to make up for the "lost brain matter." Donatello had tried to add that there was no evidence that video games caused "brain-rot" and that there were actually studies to the contrary that they helped hand/eye coordination, but Splinter would have none of that. He was set in his ways, Michelangelo needed to learn a lesson, he said, and what better way than to have to give up pizza and eat the food he hated for a week? It had worked well, too...this had happened months ago and Mike hadn't been late since…until today.

"Mikey?" Leo called into his brother's room. "I know you wanted to go to that convention, and I'm sorry you couldn't go, but you need to stop moping. It's time for practice and…" his words vanished like a puff of smoke when he noticed Mike's room was completely empty. "Mike?"

"He's gone, Leo," He heard Donatello's concerned voice behind him.

Leo turned slowly, immediately beholding Donatello's troubled expression.

"I went to grab my Bo out of the Turtle Van for practice because I had left it in there last time we went out…and it's gone," Donatello stated.

Leo quirked an eyebrow ridge at his brother. "Your bo is gone? You have more. What does that have to do with Mike?"

"No, Leo, the _van_ is gone. Mike must have taken it."

Leo's brow furrowed, any sympathy for his youngest sibling melting away. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his jaw clenching in a rare display of vexation. "_After I TOLD him not to go_? Come on, Don, we have a convention to crash…"

**A/N: UH OH MIKEY….XD**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: TMNT aren't mine.**

For the third time, Michelangelo heard his TurtleCom chirping with an incoming call. He glanced at it out of his peripheral vision, rubbing his free hand on his thigh nervously before chucking the offending object under the van seat where the roar of the engine drowned it to a dull beep. His conscience was tugging in his mind, pulling with incessant fingers. A few times he had almost turned around and headed back to the lair, but his hand remained firmly planted on the steering wheel. By the time he reached the convention center and parked the van, all thoughts of leaving faded with the final turn of the van keys.

He sat in the seat for a few moments, silently observing the throng of people heading into the massive building. His excitement grew as he took in the myriad of costumes and listened to the flutter of voices drifting through the air. Mike thrived on being around others and thus having the opportunity to freely interact with them openly beyond the small circle of his family and the few humans he knew was drawing him in like the hapless moth to a flame. Eyes wide and brimming with exhilaration, he exited the van and shut the door.

He stood in one spot, breathed in deeply, and advanced forward, clutching his entrance pass in his hand like it was a priceless gem. The orange clad terrapin strode leisurely, but purposefully, wanting to etch every sight into his memory.

About halfway through the parking lot, a vehicle parked about two hundred feet away caught his eye: a Channel 6 news van. His mouth quirked thoughtfully as he strayed from his intended path to investigate.

"April maybe?" he wondered out loud as he drew closer to the vehicle. "I wonder why she is here…"

His suspicion was confirmed when he caught sight of a flash of reddish hair on the other side of the van through the windows. He heard her distinctive voice complaining about something he couldn't discern clearly. The ninja came around the side and leaned casually against the hood of April's van, crossing his arms.

"Hey dudette!" he called out enthusiastically. "What's the haps?"

The human twirled around, nearly dropping the microphone from her hands.

"Michelangelo?" she asked incredulously. "What are you doing here?" Realization dawned on her the moment the inquiry left her lips and her next words become flat and lost the questioning tone. "Never mind, a comic convention…should have known."

"Exactamundo, dudette, I could ask the same of…" his words trailed off as he took in what she was wearing. She had on a skin-tight Catwoman costume that clung to her body accentuating her curves and coming to a dangerous "V" at her chest. A mask was hanging limply around her neck, dangling right above…

Mike froze in his spot, forcing himself to avert his gaze as he cleared his throat uncomfortably.

April caught his awkward reaction, but took it completely the wrong way.

"I see you noticed this ridiculous thing," she commented disgustedly, flattening her hand and raising it up and down as if she were a game show host showcasing the item of the hour. "Burne made me wear it. I know you love this sort of thing, but I really don't understand the appeal of it…"

Mike's mouth felt dry, as if stuffed with cotton. He fidgeted uneasily.

"I do…" he murmured absently.

"What?" April inquired, thankfully not catching what he had said.

He snapped out of his daze and shifted his eyes to his feet. He had four toes. Cool.

"Um…nothing," he replied, his voice cracking an octave higher. "You look totally tubular, April."

"Thanks?" she replied, her unsure tome indicating she didn't quite believe her friend.

_Dude, get a grip…_Michelangelo berated himself. _This is APRIL for crying out loud…APRIL, your FRIEND… who just happens to look really hot right now…ohhhh man…I hate hormones…_

Mike let out a shaky breath and ran a hand over his head, desperately attempting to douse the fire in his veins.

"And also," April began, "I'm surprised Splinter ok'd you coming here…isn't this normally the time you and the guys would be practicing?"

"Oh…uh…" he began, not even sure of what he was going to say. Being reminded of sneaking out was enough to send Mike unpleasantly crashing back to reality.

His train of thought was cut off by the arrival of another person who came to stand next to April. Mike scowled when he saw just _who_ it was.

"Ugh!" Vernon groaned. "Just when I thought this couldn't get any worse, those slimy green reptiles had to be here, too? Just my luck."

"I'm right here, dude!" Michelangelo said indignantly. "You don't have to talk about me as if I'm not here."

Vernon crossed his arms defensively and sneered in return at the teen. "That was the point…_you _not being _here." _He moved his hand in a "go-away motion." "Now go crawl back into whatever nasty mutant hole you came from."

Michelangelo frowned and furrowed his brow in frustration. This ignorant human was one of the few beings that could get on the normally mellow terrapin's nerves. His haughty, cowardly nature really got under Mike's shell.

"Vernon, just shut up," April snapped at her co-worker.

Vernon huffed, but remained silent. He knew how intense April could be when irritated, and that was not something he wanted to deal with right now. He was miserable enough.

Michelangelo shot April a grateful grin and mouthed "thank you, dudette" to the human. April nodded her acknowledgment.

"Well," April stated, eager to get moving and get her day over with, "I suppose we should get inside."

She affixed her press pass to her outfit while Vernon dug through the back of the news van for his camera, muttering to himself the whole time. Michelangelo made it a point to not try to make out what Vernon was saying, positive he did _not_ want to know.

April playfully hooked her arm around Michelangelo's and smiled widely down at her friend. "Would you like to lead the way, Turtle Titan?"

Michelangelo grinned lopsidedly in amusement and chuckled. "_Turtle Titan?_"

"I think it sounds like a nice superhero name for you."

Michelangelo's grin grew as he took the lead. "Well then, O Evil Catwoman, the mighty Turtle Titan orders you to come with him into the convention."

April giggled in response and fell into stride next to Michelangelo. Vernon trailed behind, still mumbling to himself and lugging the camera on his shoulder.

**A/N:** **So sorry for the wait on this chapter! It's short...but I wanted to get it out there. Life and writer's block got in the way. And with Mike's reaction to April's costume...he's a teenage boy. Just playing on that a little. **


End file.
